


With every reason but no explanation

by tocourtdisaster



Series: One near perfect thing [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Established Relationship, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up alone in Sherlock's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With every reason but no explanation

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this comes from "As Far as the Mind Can See: Part 1: Dreaming in the Age of Answers" by Spock's Beard.

John wakes slowly enough in the weak pre-dawn light that it takes him nearly two minutes to realize he's not in his own bed. He fully blames this on Sherlock; if not for her, he would have gotten a full night's sleep last night and wouldn't have mush for brains this morning.

He's about to voice his displeasure to Sherlock when he realizes that not only is he not in his own bed, but he's alone to boot.

"Shit," he says, pushing himself upright. He'd thought when they went to bed last night that Sherlock's propensity to run from her emotions had been tempered, but clearly not. He wonders how he's supposed to find Sherlock if she doesn't want to be found. He doesn't want to call in Mycroft, especially considering the role he played in Sherlock's skittish behavior these past few days, but he will ask the man for help if he has to.

John is reaching for his jeans, trying to figure out where to go first when he sees Sherlock's phone on the nightstand and sits back on the edge of the bed with a relieved sigh. Sherlock wouldn't leave the flat without her brand new iPhone; she treats the damn thing with more respect than she treats most human beings.

So, Sherlock is still somewhere in the flat, which is encouraging.

Less encouraging is the absolute silence from the rest of the flat. Not that Sherlock's never been silent before, but the quality of the silence is different: less contemplative, more _empty_.

John's dressing gown is hanging on the back of Sherlock's door, apparently where she left it after borrowing it and 'forgetting' to return it. He tugs it on and makes sure to tie the belt securely; it wouldn't do to accidentally flash Mrs. Hudson should she wander upstairs for whatever reason.

Both the bathroom and kitchen are empty, though there is a mug of half-drunk tea on the side that's not stone-cold yet. The sitting room is just as deserted as the rest of the flat so far, leaving only one other place Sherlock could be.

The stairs creak beneath him as he makes his way upstairs, but he doesn't try to quiet his steps; he'd rather Sherlock knew he was coming than startle her. He's not sure he can deal with her being startled so soon after dealing with the emotional upheaval of last night.

He catches sight of Sherlock before he's even reached the top stop. She's sitting on his bed, hasn't bothered to close the door behind herself, and is wearing nothing but John's red button down shirt. It's only haphazardly buttoned, leaving more of Sherlock's skin on display than John is used to seeing.

John stops just outside the open door and watches Sherlock. She's got to know he's here, but she doesn't acknowledge him. The drawer of the bedside table is open and the tin box that normally lives in there is open in Sherlock's lap. There's a stack of letters next to her, taken from the box, all of them from Harry and sent during John's various deployments. There are photos, too, though it doesn't look like Sherlock's dug that deeply into the box yet.

"You don't wear your dog tags anymore," Sherlock says, startling John out of his silent observation of her. She doesn't look up from her perusal of the box in her lap, but John knows it's not the contents of the box that have Sherlock's full attention. "Why?"

John takes the three steps necessary to get to her side and sits, their legs pressed together from hip to knee, elbows bumping. He reaches across his body with his left hand to grasp the chain of his tags and lift them from the box. He catches sight of his name stamped in the metal as the tags dangle.

"Dog tags are used for identification purposes during times of war," John tells her, watching Sherlock watch the tags. "Wearing them now doesn't feel right. I'm not the same John Watson I was back then. And London isn't actually a warzone, no matter what Mycroft says."

Sherlock reaches out and closes her hand around the slowly spinning metal discs, but she doesn't try to pull them towards herself; their hands hang suspended, only a thin chain separating them.

"Mycroft is an overdramatic git," Sherlock says like it's a statement of fact and not a little sister's opinion of her overbearing older brother. John snorts and lets go of his end of the chain. Sherlock moves to put the tags back in the tin, but John stops her with a hand against her wrist.

"You should keep them," he tells her. Sherlock finally turns and meets John's eye and he can see her confusion as plain as day. If he's being honest with himself, he's not sure he understands his reasoning either, but still, "I want you to keep them."

Sherlock still looks confused, but she doesn't question him. The chain is long enough that when Sherlock slips it over her head, the tags rest against her sternum between her breasts in the vee of her borrowed half-buttoned shirt. John presses the pads of his fingers against them, feels the metal warming between his skin and Sherlock's.

John isn't certain how long they sit there like that, though he's sure Sherlock could tell him if he were to ask. The room gradually lightens around them as the sun finally peeks over the artificial horizon of steel that makes up most of the city.

The reverie is broken by Sherlock letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. John wonders if she actually slept last night or if she just laid awake all night while John slept on, oblivious, next to her.

"Come on, we both need more sleep," John tells her, standing and pulling Sherlock to her feet only long enough to turn down the sheets. "In you get."

While Sherlock burrows her way into the bedding, John draws the curtains, leaving the room mostly dark. His dressing gown gets hung from the bedpost and then Sherlock is pulling him down into the nest of sheets and duvet and arranging his limbs to suit her purposes.

Sherlock eventually settles with her head on John's chest, arm over his waist, leg flung over both of his. John's got one hand tangled in Sherlock's hair, the other dangling over the edge of the mattress, and he can feel his dog tags pressed against his ribcage where Sherlock is sprawled over him.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
